


Cecil Palmer Gives A Statement (Jonathan Sims Gets A Headache)

by vivacious_turpitude



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: (so basically canon?), THIS IS:, allusions to Carlos's vacation lab coat (OOOOOO!), and Cecil babbling nonstop abt how much he loves his husband, extremely confused Jon who suddenly has to deal with (1) one Whole Cecil, i did it guys. i really did it., i saw so many tumblr posts abt it and then i bit the bullet and i did it, the welcome to nightvale/the magnus archives CROSSOVER E X T R A V A G A N Z A, this fic featuring: bubbly Cecil on vacation in London
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23505712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivacious_turpitude/pseuds/vivacious_turpitude
Summary: The WTNV/TMA crossover everyone was talking about and no one was writing++Jon glared accusingly at the tape recorder. It would be so easy to write off this insane person, dressed like the Muppets on acid, if not for that damning click. It had fucking turned itself on.++"Since Carlos and I were already in town, I thought I'd pop in, as one radio professional to another, and give you some tips!"
Comments: 57
Kudos: 278





	1. Cecil's Primary Priority in Life Is to Talk About Carlos (Jon Does Not Understand What Is Fucking Happening)

Jon was between statements, and that’s why he noticed the click of the tape recorder turning on. It was the first strange thing that happened in what was soon to become a very long, _very_ strange series of events. 

It must have been less than a second later when he heard, in quick succession, 2 raps at the door and the creak of it opening. He looked up to either reprimand some lesser employee for interrupting or ask Martin (or Daisy, or Basira) why they would bother knocking, when his eyes met— well, he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. He did know what he was hearing, though:

“...really was a lovely lady, and she always said, she said, ‘Cecil, I’m knocking because I respect your privacy, but asserting the authority of the Sheriff’s Secret Police to surveil you by coming in anyway.’ She really was sentimental! I always—”

The words tuned out as Jon tried to take in the— the— person? saying them. No, person wasn’t quite the right word, despite being more person-shaped than not. Entity, perhaps? But not so ominous as all that. The— _somebody_ standing before him was dressed like no one he’d ever seen before. Hell, like no one he’d ever imagined.

Jauntily atop his head was a plaid-upholstered tea-cosy, covered in iron-on patches of bees and draped in multi-color Mardi Gras beads. Hanging off his body was what appeared to be a historically accurate Doric chiton (the Eye confirmed), except that it seemed to be made entirely of pink plastic lined in rainbow silk, and cinched with a studded belt of the sort that Jon had once considered wearing during some particularly ill-conceived fashion years as an angsty teen. On the legs, rhinestone fishnets covered in— if he could believe his eyes— mini rubber duckies with tiny sailor’s hats. They were half-covered with rainbow fake-fur leg warmers that led to wooden clogs hand-painted with traditional Dutch pastoral landscapes. Most jarringly, to Jon, was that atop the whole ensemble was a perfectly normal matador jacket. Perfectly normal, except that it did not seem to be being worn by a matador.

And my god, he was _still_ talking?

“...our anniversary, so sweet, and Carlos has always wanted to examine the unique slimes of the London Tube, he’s a _scientist_ , so we—” He suddenly paused.

Jon tried to work himself up to say something, but before he could, the strange somebody spoke, as if it was an aside to an old friend, “Don’t be so worried about all of this! Although, I suppose I did forget introductions— you’re Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, and I’m Cecil Palmer, husband of Carlos the Scientist.”

Somehow the words “the Archivist” came out in an eerie echo of his voice— not a mimic, the actual sound of his voice when he recorded a statement. Jon was stunned silent yet again.

Taking the silence as invitation, or at least not objection, Cecil, with a riot of sounds (the jangle of the Mardi Gras beads, the crinkle of the pink plastic, the thunk of the clogs, and, most disturbingly, the pseudo-human whine as the rubber duckies compressed) slung himself into the chair across from Jon. 

Jon finally recovered his words.

“Did Helen send you? Or the Cult of the Lightless Flame? Or— no.” His voice hardened. “I’ll try again. _Who do you work for?_ ”

Cecil’s face flashed with offense taken, which Jon thought was a bit rich from somebody who had just waltzed into his office without so much as a by-your-leave. Still, Cecil’s face cleared, schooled itself into that of a primary school teacher affectionately scolding a student. 

(A bit demeaning, Jon thought.)

“Well! I don’t know any Helens, except Helen Hunt, and I only know her based on her biography. Great read, by the way, if you don’t mind the accompanying adrenaline rush of running from the librarians. And, Cult of the Lightless Flame? I would _never_ get involved in any cults not sanctioned by the City Government, I’m a good Bloodstone Worshipper, you can ask _anyone_ . And really, I’m not working _at all_ at the moment, I’m on an anniversary vacation with my husband Carlos, I _did_ tell you about Carlos. He’s the most beautiful man in the world, his hair should be nationally-recognized— no, _inter_ nationally! And when he wears his vacation lab coat, I—” 

Before Cecil could get back to what was almost guaranteed to be more rambling, Jon interrupted.

“Fine, fine, fine, but when you _do_ work, who do you work for?”

Cecil looked slightly put out to be interrupted while singing the praises of his husband, but answered obligingly. “Oh, well, I work for Station Management, of course!” He shivered, and got a faraway look in his eyes for just a fraction of a moment, before bouncing back. “I’m the radio host for Night Vale’s number one radio news source! We’re number one because we’re the best,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “ _and_ because the City Council made a decree that if anyone said otherwise, they’d be,” he finger-quoted, “ _relocated_ to the abandoned mineshaft outside of town.”

He spoke normally again, “I’m so lucky to live in Night Vale!” 

Jon glared accusingly at the tape recorder. It would be so easy to write off this insane person, dressed like the Muppets on acid, if not for that damning click. It had turned itself on. This slightly eerie, babbling, jolly rancher of a potential statement _must_ be important, and, more worryingly, everything he was saying must be true, because he would Feel it if it was not. 

Crazy or no, Jon needed to take the reins of this conversation.

Jon steeled himself for more babble. “Cecil— it was Cecil?” A vigorous headbob. “Where _is_ Night Vale?”

Cecil beamed and repeated back cheerfully, “Where _is_ Night Vale!”

 _Why could nothing be easy?_ Jon rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, _what?_ ”

“No, when!”

“When?”

“Well, we only recently rejoined _this_ timeline, so I can’t really be sure, so there’s no way to know. But being on the same timeline is doing wonders for our tourism— _Visitable Night Vale: We Will Show You Fun in a Handful of Dust_ , Madeline LeFleur asked me to say that— and besides, it really helped me and Carlos make it here for this _anniversary_ vacation. Anniversary! It feels like only yesterday I first set eyes on his perfect, perfect hair—”

Jon was almost impressed with this Cecil— with the Eye’s power behind him, it had been a long time since someone had failed to answer his questions, let alone rambled so determinedly yet carelessly. No one really talked carelessly around him anymore, he reflected somewhat morosely. Still, he truly wanted to know where this strange, strange not-quite-a-person had come from. He tried an easier, yes-or-no question.

“Is Night Vale near to here? I mean, is it in England?” He assumed not, based on Cecil’s accent.

Cecil giggled. “Oh, no! I suppose you could say Night Vale is in the United States, but you can’t really get there _from_ the US, so I’m not sure if it _really_ , you know, _counts_ . I mean, if you want to get to Night Vale from _any_ where, you have to transverse the intertemporal plane at an angle of a frigid -6 degrees (or radians, I’m no bigot) until you get to that gas station with the knock-off galactic twinkies— oh, here I go, talking geography when we’ve barely exchanged pleasantries! So rude! So, how _are_ you, Jon? We’ve all been wondering, ever since that business with Jane Prentiss, and those clowns, and—”

For all that Cecil was clearly not quite a person, for all the he seemed immune to the pull of the Eye as only those closest avatars of the Dark and the Stranger and the Spiral could be, for all the every piece of clothing on his body screamed “this is my first day outside, ever!”, Jon had felt somehow that he wasn’t harmful. A bit terrifying, but seemingly without purpose. Cecil had seemed… fine? But how did someone from a town that both was and wasn’t in America (apparently?), who he'd never met before in his life, who claimed not to work for anyone but the station management of his local radio station, _how_ did _that_ person know about Jane Prentiss? About The Unknowing and Nikola Orsinov?

Authors Note:  [Blue_Rive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Rive/pseuds/Blue_Rive) has made some incredible art for Cecil based on his description in this chapter! I'm pasting it below, and you can also find it (and more of their wtnv art) at <https://wtnvsaysfuckcapitalism.tumblr.com/>. they are really cool and i'm super honored to have fanart for this fic!!


	2. Cecil Gives Jon Radio Tips to Pep Up His Broadcasting (Jon Is Too Exhausted & Confused to Be Offended)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, re: the TMA universe, this fic is set sometime in Season 4 probably/ish, and for wtnv cecil's coming in sometime after the events of The Trouble with/Promise of/Battle for Time (eps 156, 157, 158)

With the tired resignation of a man who has been in significantly more life-threatening situations than he had anticipated by taking an archival job, Jon turned to Cecil. Strange but seemingly harmless Cecil, who appeared to be not so harmless. _Why was nothing ever_ **_fucking_ ** _easy around here?_

“Cecil, how do you know about those things? Are you sure you’re not here to— to— kidnap or try to kill me? That is what people have usually done around this juncture.”

“Of course not, Jon, I’m on _vacation_ ! And _besides_ , I usually leave those sorts of things to the Secret Police and World Government.”

This was not as reassuring as Cecil had obviously intended it to be. Jon stared balefully back at him.

Cecil tried again.

“No, really, I know about you— well, _Night Vale_ knows about you— through a pair of mutual acquaintances? That is to say, you never _met_ them, you heard a _statement_ about them, and they moved into Night Vale!”

Jon didn’t have time to consider the logistics of counting someone who’d had a statement _made about them_ to him as an acquaintance, nor how they (or _Cecil_ ) would even know that.

Cecil continued, exuberantly. “You _did_ meet one of their former classmates, one, hmmm, Max Musterman? But our two, they haven’t talked to him in _ages_ . Very sweet couple, Juanita Pérez and Eva Nováková. They wanted someone to teach them how to wear human bodies right, and we were like, oh, _same_ , sister, we’ve _all_ been _there—_ ”

For _far_ from the first time since Cecil had swung through his door this morning, Jon felt pangs of unease. Juanita Pérez and Eva Nováková were clearly two more of the seven inhuman John and Jane Does from Dr. Lionel Elliot’s bizarre Anatomy Class. Having met Max Mustermann, and almost died ( _again_ ), resultantly, it was… odd, that Night Vale had taken to his classmates so easily. 

He wondered at the sort of town that heard someone was not human, but only wearing an ill-fitting human suit, wanting lessons on how to do it better, and whose only response was affirmation and commiseration. Yet again, he wondered _what_ _exactly_ Cecil _was_. Perhaps _everyone_ in Night Vale was just a monster in a person-suit. ( _If so_ , a not-so-nice part of his brain whispered, _maybe_ you _should move there_.)

But Cecil was still talking, explaining how he knew the terrible details of Jon’s life.

“I was going to send them to the University of What It Is, to enroll in classes to help them learn— they had mentioned also taking some college courses before, so they’d swing right back into place, _but_ the dean there, Sarah Sultan? Is a smooth, fist-sized river rock, and she _really_ takes issue with people implying that there’s more than one right way to wear a human body, or _define_ a human body. _And_ she’s very into that belief system, you know, _transhumanism_ , where you believe that when transgender humans modify their bodies they become living gods? So I sent them to Simone Rigadeau, the transient who lives in the Earth Sciences building. I mean, she may believe the world ended in 1983, but she’s _very_ patient with students, and she was _once_ a professor and scientist. My husband is a scientist as well, have I mentioned that? Anyway, as soon as they moved into their house, we could tune in every Thursday on Channel 3 to hear you read statements. Since Carlos and I were already in town, I thought I'd pop in, as one radio professional to another, and give you some tips!”

Jon steepled his fingers in front of his forehead. In a certain sense, this explained a lot. In another, more pertinent sense, he was now bursting with a barrage of questions which, he had the sinking feeling, would just lead to more of this feeling. This all made sense, if he ignored all sense and rationality. 

It strangely made him more comfortable, this nonsensical sense. The Stranger and The Unknowing had been about destroying the very concept of reason and order and sense, but Cecil was simply offering a very, uh, _alternative_ take on those things. The Spiral was about obfuscating, lying and twisting the truth up until nothing sounded real— but Cecil was almost worryingly straight-forward, if a little distractible. 

And although Jon remembered both Micheal and Helen being honest at straight-forward at times, they always _wanted_ things from him, he always felt them pulling at his boundaries, his limits. Cecil may have been dressed like a man with no respect for common decency at all, but, Jon realized, he really did seem to be here to just— _chat_.

“Cecil, you do know I am an archivist? The Archivist, in fact. And that I don’t necessarily need, what was it, radio professional tips?”

Cecil straightened himself up in his chair, huffily. “Well, if that’s how you’re going to be about it—”

Jon realized he was a millisecond away from losing what would probably be the only contact he ever had with the town of Night Vale. And the tape recorder had turned itself on, there was _something_ here, surely.

“No, no, I just meant— sorry, I’d very much like to hear— we just may be working with different _objectives_ , but all the same, go ahead, go ahead.”

Cecil settled himself back into the chair, looking pacified.

“Well, you only ever seem to have the one tone, you see?” Then, in a truly terrible fake British accent and stuffy voice Jon assumed represented _him_ , “Ohhhh, doom and gloom, everything’s gone to shit, oh woe is me.” Cecil pulled a dramatic face. 

Then, returning to his normal voice. “It’s all very one-note. I mean, from hearing you all this time, I _understand_ you don’t want to be possessed by gods or have your entire self consumed by the living manifestation of fear, blah blah blah, I mean it’s not _for_ everyone, you know, so fine, but really? All of your stories about being kidnapped or pulled into the dangerous traps of, what do you call them, avatars, and you always play them the same way! I mean, could you not, once, for _variety_ , have been overjoyed about it? Or at _least_ put a little pep in it! Really the only thing that’s keeping you balanced at all are your little moments with Martin, but _really_ , don’t be afraid to _lean into it_ .” With a smug yet tender look, Cecil declared “ _I_ had Carlos’s and my wedding _on the air,_ you know!”

Jon privately wondered to himself how many times this afternoon he would feel like someone had pulled the rug out from under him. Logic would dictate that he should be expecting the unexpected at this point, but then, logic would dictate that with everything that’s happened to him in life so far, he should be used to a state of constant shock. He found he was not. It was all he could do to croak out a reflexive, “Congratulations,” when Cecil mentioned his wedding.

“ _Oh_ , thank you!” Cecil responded brightly. “This _is_ an anniversary vacation, after all!”

“Yes, I do believe you did mention that, once or twice.” (Four times, The Eye projected directly into his mind. He has mentioned it four times. So far.)

And on the subject of The Eye… Jon wondered. Cecil seemed entirely at ease with, as he had put it, being possessed by gods or consumed by a fear entity, but had tripped to remember the idea of avatars. Did he, and by extension, Night Vale, _know_ about The Fears? Did they communicate directly with The Fears, thus Cecil’s unfamiliarity with avatars? Or had Night Vale just made its peace with and integrated in all the strange and disturbing incidences that came with The Fears? 

Jon decided. He was going to get Cecil to give a statement about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so first of all: surprise! all of the anatomy class students are trans!!! why? because i decided that everyone in the anatomy class ended up trans and that's my truth and no one will convince me otherwise!!
> 
> second, when i was writing "secret police" in this, i actually wrote "sexy police" and didn't catch it til my final read through. just, you know, lots to think about there.
> 
> finally, i had this chapter like half-written already so i won't usually update this fast, but all your comments really lit a fire under my ass + warmed my heart!! thank u and pls keep commenting fucking WHATEVER you want!!!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!  
> comments water my crops, clear my skin, and write my new chapters.


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